CHAPTER 10

The blacked-out Rolls Royce drives into the VIP lot like a shark entering a cove. 

When Matt Kingston steps out, the mid-day sun glints off his designer shades, as he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and heads toward the lounge.

He takes off his sunglasses, revealing grey eyes and the atmosphere in the outdoor section of the lounge shifts instantly like he brought a vacuum with him that sucked out all the oxygen, leaving every woman in the place gasping and snapping their heads in his direction with thirsty stares. 

Girls in denim bum shorts that barely cover the ass and tops with necklines plunging to their navels suddenly find interesting ways to stir their cocktails while holding intense eye contact. They’re all of them praying for a single glance from the dashing man in the bespoke suit.

Near the entrance, one girl gets so caught up in the "Matt Effect" that she adjusts her breasts in her push-up bra to give him a better view, completely forgetting she’s there with her boyfriend.

"What the hell, Chloe? I’m sitting right here," her boyfriend snaps.

"Oh, please," she fires back, not even looking at him. "Like you wouldn't stare if a supermodel walked in."

"Those tits are fake anyway," he snarls, trying to reclaim some dignity. Everyone can see the silicone."

"Fake?" She finally turns on him. "They were real enough to have your pathetic dick drooling between them during that boob job last night. Shut the fuck up."

At the next table over, a guy in a slim-fit polo sits there licking his lips as Matt walks past, and his girlfriend looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

"What are you doing? That’s a man, Steve!”

"A hot man," his eyes track the shape of Matt’s muscles through his tailored shirt.

"I didn't know you were into guys!" she looked around to see if anyone heard.

"I’m not, but I’m sorry, that guy is too goddamn hot not to imagine sticking my rod into. It’s just biology, babe."

Matt is used to this shit by now so he doesn't even slow his pace. The whispers, the heated arguments, the blatant thirst is just the background noise of his life. 

He’s a walking riot starter, and frankly, if anything, he’s just quietly amused. He’s mostly just grateful there aren't any botoxed-up cougars in the mix today. That’s a brand of desperation he doesn't have the patience for because he’s had enough of older women blowing him kisses with wrinkly, lipstick-stained, over-filled lips to last a lifetime.

He breezes past a waitress whose eyes are stuck on him, and heads straight for the elevator. The doors hiss shut, cutting off the chaos of the lounge. 

He hits the button for the fourth floor, heading up to Troy’s office to finally talk some business that doesn't involve someone's girlfriend trying to jump his bones.

Soon, the lift dings with an expensive chime, and the doors slide open to a hallway covered in carpet so thick it swallows the sound of Matt’s Italian leather loafers. 

The two mountain-sized bouncers guarding the double mahogany doors at the end of the hall offer a respectful, silent nod as he approaches, but the real greeting comes from behind the wood.

It’s the unmistakable, wet shloop of a throat being worked over and the desperate, muffled gagging of someone trying to take every last inch. Above it all, a low, gravelly groan vibrates through the wood.

Matt’s lips curl into a knowing smirk. 

His best friend, Troy, has always been a Grade-A slut. The man is unapologetic about his appetites. He is the kind of guy who gets a rock-hard boner in the middle of a board meeting and finds a way to get it drained before the closing remarks. 

Troy has the kind of "fuck you" money that buys any fantasy he wants, making sure every one of his kinks is catered to by whatever high-end whore catches his eye. 

Matt gives the bouncers a lazy wave of his hand. They heave the doors open, and the musky, heavy blend of expensive Cuban cigar smoke, top-shelf bourbon, and the woodsy scent of Troy’s signature cologne, greets him.

Troy is sunk deep into a plush velvet armchair, head thrown back against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of agonizing pleasure. 

A girl with pink hair and curves that threaten to rip the seams of her tiny mini-dress is knelt between his pillars of thighs. 

She’s working overtime, her hands braced on his knees as she buries her face in his lap, head bobbing with the squelching sound of her saliva.

The sound of her throat hitting the head of his rod is loud in the quiet room, a wet, rhythmic choking that tells Matt she’s taking every inch of him.

Troy is way too far gone into the white light to offer a verbal "hello," or a nod, his hands buried in the pink hair as he guides her rhythm.

But Matt doesn't mind the wait. He helps himself to the opposite cushion, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other and watches the show with the detached interest of a king watching a court jester. 

"Don't mind me, Troy," Matt says, his voice low over the sound of the girl’s gagging. "I’ll just wait until you’re finished draining the tank."

Troy lets out a rattling groan, his fingers digging deeper into the pink-haired girl's scalp, forcing her deeper onto the meat. 

Matt just watches, his mind wandering back to the mystery girl he’s convinced is out there somewhere, wondering if she could ever make him lose his cool as completely as this girl has Troy.